A chain-link fence topped with razor wire surrounded St. Bartholomew Maximum Security Sanitarium. Anthrax leaned against a dented utility van with the words SANITATION SERVICES painted to the side. Some of the letters were worn off, so it read SANIT I SERVICES. Appropriate, am I right?
Twisted Sister adjusted the white nurse cap on her head that was two sizes too small. Their scrubs were clean, and please don’t ask where they came from because it would totally spoil the end of this little adventure in the collective minds of madness.
Anthrax, meanwhile, wore a doctor’s coat, black boots, black pants, a band T shirt and a plastic stethoscope dangled around his neck like a toy - because it was. Anthrax checked his reflection in the van window, smoothed the lapels of the lab coat, and spoke in a low voice.Anthrax: Okay. Doctor … Um …
Twisted Sister squinted, tilting her head like a confused puppy.
Twisted Sister: You forgot your own fake name!
Anthrax: No! I’m … Doctor A!
Twisted Sister blinked, deadpan. Anthrax nodded like it explained everything.
Anthrax: Yeah. A for Anthrax! And you are… Nurse Dee Snyder!
Twisted Sister stared at him until the floodlights of the facility danced off of the whites of their eyes. She remained motionless, silent, until …
Twisted Sister: I LIKE it! I don’t know why, but I LIKE it!
They both turned toward the gates. A gust of wind pushed against the wrought-iron gates, causing a creaking sound that would make any old horror movie green with envy. Twisted Sister’s posture shifted. Iron Maiden was in there, and nobody got put in a place like St. Bartholomew for having a good time.
Twisted Sister: Let’s go get her!
Anthrax’s grin softened into something with sharp edges.
At the front entrance, a bored security guard sat behind glass. He barely looked up as they approached. Anthrax marched up first, clipboard held like a shield.
Anthrax: Good evening good sir! I am Doctor A!
The guard stared at him. Twisted Sister leaned in, pushing a medical cart.
Twisted Sister: Nurse Snyder, at your service!
The guard’s eyes drifted to Anthrax’s band shirt under the lab coat. Then to Twisted Sister’s fishnet stockings, because Twisted Sister had insisted If Florence Nightingale could wear them, so could she! The guard sighed, rubbed his temple, and pressed a button to buzz them through.
Guard: Third door on the left is admin. Don’t touch anything. Don’t make my night worse!
The door clicked open. They walked in like they had every reason and right to be there - and in their minds, they did! They were on a rescue mission!
The lobby smelled like old disinfectant that burned the nose. Track lighting hummed overhead, giving everything an eerie, overcast light. The receptionist, an older woman, sat at a desk reading a magazine and gave the air of someone who was just waiting for the thrill of retirement. She didn’t even look up as they approached.
Receptionist: Doctor A?
Anthrax startled.
Anthrax: YES! I mean, yes?
Receptionist: You’re late! You were scheduled for emergency treatment thirty minutes ago!
Anthrax: Yes! Emergency! Very BIG doctor emergency!
The receptionist finally looked up, eyes drifting over them with the vague disinterest of someone inspecting a new stain on a filthy carpet.
Receptionist: You’ll want the supervisor. She’s in Ward C. Try not to excite the patients. Last time someone did a wellness inspection, we had an incident with a therapy ferret.
Twisted Sister’s eyes widened with delight.
Twisted Sister: A therapy ferret!?
The receptionist slid two visitor badges across the desk.
Receptionist: Wear those. Don’t wander into Solitary. If you hear singing, don’t answer it!
Anthrax clipped the badge on crooked. The badge read Doctor A. Twisted Sister’s badge read Nurse Snyder. Come on! You HAVE to get it by now!
They pushed the infirmary cart down the hall. Ward C was guarded by another set of doors and another security station, this one staffed by a man who looked like his muscles had muscles. He scanned their badges, squinted at Anthrax’s face paint and then shrugged.
Guard: You’re the new doc?
Anthrax: Yes. Doctor A!
Guard: And you’re Nurse Snyder?
Twisted Sister gave a cheery wave.
Twisted Sister: That’s me! Spongebaths! Discipline! I do it all!
The guard’s gaze dropped to Anthrax’s boots, then to Twisted Sister’s fishnets again. He shrugged harder than before, as if he could ignore the glaringly obvious.
.
Guard: Sign in. Don’t give the patients anything they can swallow.
Twisted Sister glanced at the cart.
Twisted Sister: Even gummy worms?
Guard: Especially gummy worms!
With a press of a button, the doors unlocked and they stepped into the ward where the sounds shifted. Muffled voices, distant laughter that turned into crying before they were finished and the screaming. Oh god, the screaming! Anthrax’s shoulders squared, but the grin didn’t leave his face.
They were in enemy territory now.
They found the supervisor at the nurse’s station, a woman with a tight bun, sharp eyes, and a clipboard held like a weapon. Her badge read Head Nurse Sue Flaye. She looked up as they approached and immediately frowned.
Nurse Flaye: You’re not Dr. Keene.
Anthrax: Dr. Keene is busy. I am Doctor A.
Nurse Flaye: Doctor A. From where?
Anthrax: From the hospital, where else?
Twisted Sister: We’re here for a wellness check!
Nurse Flaye’s gaze flicked to Twisted Sister’s badge.
Nurse Flaye: Nurse Snyder.
Twisted Sister peered closer at the Nurse’s badge.
Twisted Sister: Nurse… Sue Flaye…
Twisted Sister and Anthrax looked at each other and broke out into hysterical laughter! Head Nurse Flaye frowned. It took all kinds to treat these people.
Nurse Flaye: Follow me.
They followed her down a corridor that grew quieter with every step. Doors here were heavier. Locks were thicker. The laughter vanished and was replaced with the kind of silence that had teeth. At the end of the corridor was a steel door with a keypad and a key slot.
Flaye typed a code, then pulled out a security pass key. It was attached to a retractable cord on her belt. Anthrax’s eyes locked onto it like it was a championship belt!
Nurse Flaye: This is a Solitary Annex. Only high-risk patients. We do not open doors unless necessary.
Nurse Flaye looked at Anthrax.
Nurse Flaye: What exactly are you here to inspect?
Anthrax: Ummm…. A patient … with metal stability!
Nurse Flaye’s lips pressed into a thin line.
Nurse Flaye: You mean mental instability.
Anthrax: That’s what I said!
Nurse Flaye swiped her key, the door clicked, and she pulled it open just enough for them to enter.
Nurse Flaye: You have ten minutes. Do not engage. Do not antagonize. Do not…
A distant shout echoed from the ward behind them, followed by a crash and someone screaming!
Patient: THE FERRET IS BACK!
Nurse Flaye’s eyes flicked down the corridor, irritation flashing across her face. Twisted Sister seized the moment, gasping dramatically!
Twisted Sister: Oh no! Not the ferret incident again!
Nurse Flaye’s jaw tightened. She reached up, unhooked the key cord slightly as if preparing to sprint.
Nurse Flaye: Stay here. Do not touch anything!
Nurse Flaye hurried away, her footsteps sharp against the floor! The moment she hurried along, Anthrax reached toward the pass key and snatched it in his fingers! The cord stretched and then the clip snapped loose! Anthrax held up the key like a trophy.
Anthrax: She probably thought it was her garters giving way!
Anthrax swiped the pass key, unlocking the heavy steel door. Inside the Solitary Annex, the lighting was dimmer. They walked down the row of heavy doors until they found the one marked:
>
Patient: MAIDEN, I.
RISK LEVEL: EXTREME
Twisted Sister giggled, her fingertips in her mouth from giddy excitement.
Twisted Sister: That’s her! It’s her! It’s her! It’s her!
Anthrax swiped the pass key and turned the lock, opening the door into the relative unknown.
Iron Maiden sat on the edge of a narrow bed like she’d been waiting the entire time, spine straight, hands resting on her knees. Black and white face paint smeared, hair left uncombed and her pajamas worn out and loose fitting. Her eyes lifted slowly, too slowly, and they seemed almost vacant.
Anthrax stepped inside the room first and performed a sweeping bow.
Anthrax: Good evening, ma’am! We’re here for your discharge!
Iron Maiden spoke only one word, her voice rough as gravel.
Iron Maiden: Finally!
Anthrax held up the pass key and smiled ghoulishly.
Anthrax: Time to go!
Iron Maiden moved like a predator, controlled and dangerous without trying. She said nothing else, only stepped to the door to join her two saviors.
The three passed back into the main corridor just as Nurse Flaye returned, breathing hard, hair slightly disheveled, looking like she’d just wrestled a ferret and lost. And she DID lose! Her face tightened around the mouth, betraying her emotions at the lack of protocol.
Twisted Sister: Good news! Wellness inspection complete!
Anthrax: The patient is emotionally metal stable!
Iron Maiden stared at Nurse Flaye without blinking.
Nurse Flaye: Why is she out of her room?
Twisted Sister answered immediately.
Twisted Sister: Therapeutic walk!
Anthrax: Doctor’s orders!
Nurse Flaye’s gaze narrowed.
Nurse Flaye: Whose orders?
Anthrax tapped his badge.
Anthrax: Doctor A.
The head nurse stared at both of them for a long and dangerous pause when from down the hall, there was another crash!
Patient: THE THERAPY FERRET HAS A SHIV!
Nurse Flaye’s eyes squeezed shut like she was praying for the sweet release of resignation or retirement. Her radio crackled with frantic chatter. She looked between the chaos behind her and the three in front of her. Finally, she stepped aside.
Nurse Flaye: Get her to intake. Sign the paperwork. Don’t make this worse!
Twisted Sister saluted like a good little soldier.
Twisted Sister: Absolutely!
Iron Maiden said nothing. She simply walked. And the staff, overworked and underpaid, did not question it. They saw a lab coat and their brains filed it under Not My Problem. The Metal Maniacs reached the front lobby again. The receptionist didn’t bother to look up.
Receptionist: You done?
Twisted Sister danced from foot to foot.
Twisted Sister: We cured everything!
They pushed through the front doors into the night. Rain had started, light and steady. The van waited. Anthrax opened the side door with a flourish. Twisted Sister guided Iron Maiden in first.
Anthrax hopped in last, slammed the door, and started the engine. They rolled out through the gates like they belonged there. Nobody stopped them. The floodlights swept over the van and moved on. St. Bartholomew Maximum Security Sanitarium’s existence continued on.
>
A few patients of the Sanitarium had been put to work at folding tables under the watch of an attendant who kept a close, nervous watch around him, wishing he could be anywhere but here.
One patient sat cross-legged on the floor directly in front of the dryers, face inches from the glass, eyes wide and unblinking, watching the tumbling sheets as if they were episodes of his favorite television show. At the far folding table, another patient had worn a sock on his right hand and held it aloft. The sock had buttons for eyes and a stitched grin. The third patient was in an epic battle, trying to fold a fitted sheet - and coming out on the losing side every time!
In the middle of it all, Iron Maiden and Twisted Sister had stood like two stains that wouldn’t bleach out.
The sock puppet had turned toward them, bobbing with eager little nods.Twisted Sister: You all hear that, right?
She had tilted her head, as if listening for something behind the noise.
Twisted Sister: That’s the Sanitarium doing what it does best. Turning. Cleaning. Spinning. Rinsing out the stains!
She glanced at the man watching the dryers like a television, and the man stared harder, as if she had just narrated the plot.
Twisted Sister: He’s watching stories in there. He’s watching heroes get wrung out. Watching villains get fluffed and folded and put back on the shelf like they never did anything wrong.
She lifted one towel from the cart, held it in both hands, then twisted it slowly, slow enough that the gesture had felt like a threat rather than a chore.
Twisted Sister: That’s what you three think you are, don’t you. A nice little story. A neat little family photo you can hang in the hallway.
She set the towel down with care, smoothing the edges as if she wanted it perfect before she tore it apart.
Twisted Sister: Crystal Zdunich. Seleana. Zenna. Look at you. All holding hands, all bright smiles and matching names like you’re stitched into the same blanket.
The sock puppet had bobbed faster, like applause. The patient holding it had made the sock’s mouth open and shut, pretending it cheered.
Twisted Sister: Cute. You walk into that ring thinking connection makes you safe. Thinking love makes you untouchable. Thinking the crowd will cradle you because you fit together so well. You love each other. And that’s exactly why this is going to hurt.
She snatched the fitted sheet from the patient trying to fold it and bunched it in her clenched fists and inhaled the scent of the detergent, her eyes closed in dreaded bliss.
Twisted Sister: Crystal Zdunich, you’ve built your whole identity on being unbreakable. On being the bright, shining standard. You’re the good crystal. The clean one. But even crystal gets cloudy when it’s put under pressure. Every crystal cracks when it gets hit the right way. But I don’t need you to shatter. I just need one fracture. One tiny line that spreads when you reach for Seleana and call out to Zenna. And then you’ll hear it! The sound of yourself splitting!
Iron Maiden’s gaze had moved, slow and deliberate, from the camera to the nearest folding table. The patient with the sock puppet had turned it toward her, like offering the stage.
Iron Maiden: Seleana.
Twisted Sister moved closer to Iron Maiden.
Twisted Sister: Seleana, you’re the wife. The anchor. The one who thinks she can pull Crystal back from any edge because you know her better than anyone.
Twisted Sister shook her head and tutted.
Twisted Sister: You think knowing someone is the same as saving them. It’s not. We’ve watched people in here know each other for years and still forget each other’s names when the lights flicker.
She had nodded toward the man staring into the dryers. He had begun to grin at something spinning behind the glass.
Twisted Sister: You can be the closest person in the world and still lose them in a second. You’re going to learn what it feels like to reach out and grab air.
Iron Maiden: Zenna…
She closed her eyes and drew out the name softly.
Twisted Sister: Zenna, you’re the sister-in-law. The extra blade in the drawer. You think that means you can be reckless. You think that means you can take risks because if you get hurt, there are two others to cover you. That’s the lie that gets people hurt the worst. Because the moment you’re the one in trouble, family turns into a chain. And chains don’t save you. They drag you down with them.
The sock puppet had started to “boo,” flapping its stitched mouth dramatically. The patient had angled it toward the camera like he was defending the Zdunichs.
Twisted Sister had looked at the sock puppet.
Twisted Sister: Oh you can boo all you want.
She had leaned in close to the sock, voice barely audible over the dryers.
Twisted Sister: Nobody’s going to throw you a lifeline either.
The patient made the sock puppet nod like it understood.
Iron Maiden had lifted her chin slightly, and the movement had pulled attention away from the puppet and toward her. Twisted Sister giggled.
Twisted Sister: Six Bombshell Tag. Six bodies. Six pulses. Six sets of lungs trying to remember how to breathe when the room gets smaller. You three think the numbers favor you because you come in as a unit. As a set.
Iron Maiden: Numbers don’t matter when the wrong person is counting.
She had tapped her fingers against the metal cart, a slow count only she seemed to hear.
Iron Maiden: One for the first scream you won’t let out because you don’t want to look weak.
Twisted Sister: Two for the first time you hesitate because you don’t want to leave your wife alone.
Iron Maiden: Three for the first time you look for your sister-in-law and don’t see her where she’s supposed to be.
Twisted Sister: Four for the first time you realize love doesn’t protect you from impact.
Iron Maiden: Five for the first time you realize the ring doesn’t care what your last name is.
Twisted Sister: Six for the moment you understand what we are.
Iron Maiden’s fingers had curled into a fist.
Iron Maiden: Cut.
Twisted Sister: That’s what we do. We cut the pretty picture down the middle and watch you try to tape it back together while the crowd chants your name and pretends that helps.
She stepped back, letting the hum of the laundry room fill the space between them.
Twisted Sister: You’re going to show up with your matching confidence and your matching gear and your matching pride. And we’re going to show up with something you don’t understand until it’s too late.
Twisted Sister: Patience.
She turned her head slightly, listening again, as if the Sanitarium itself had been talking to her personally.
Twisted Sister: In here, you learn how to wait. You learn how to watch people unravel bit by bit. You learn how to smile while you do it.
The man watching the dryers had suddenly laughed, delighted by whatever “scene” had played across the glass. Twisted Sister looked pleased.
Twisted Sister: That’s the soundtrack to your match. That laugh. The laugh you hear when you realize you’re not in control anymore. When the bell rings, I want you to look at each other, just once, and remember this room.
The Iron Maiden ran her hands down the sides of her face, caking her makeup beneath her nails.
Iron Maiden: You’re going to feel the exact moment your connection becomes your weakness. You’re going to feel the exact moment you try to save each other and it costs you everything!
Twisted Sister: And when you’re on the mat, reaching, scrambling, trying to pull the pieces back into place?
She lowered her voice even further.
Twisted Sister: We’ll be standing over you like a grave digger throwing in the dirt filling your graves up inch by inch while you lie there, unable to process your untimely demise.
The sock puppet had clapped again, frantic little flaps, the patient eager to please. The man at the dryers had kept staring, enthralled by the spinning “show”. And the Metal Maniacs?
Iron Maiden and Twisted Sister were never there. Why would they be? Even they wouldn't be crazy enough to cut a wrestling promo inside of a sanitarium.</font>
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